


Spies and Assassins

by Persiflage



Series: Bondkink Fics [46]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another universe James Bond became a successful assassin, not a Double-0 agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfsbride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/gifts).



> This one's for Wolfsbride with many thanks for letting me steal her idea out from under her nose - and for letting me borrow her opening scene (which I rewrote). She was graciously excited instead of appalled at my theft, and then cheerled me all the way through its writing.
> 
> I borrowed Major Townsend & 44 Kensington Cloisters from Fleming's _The Man With the Golden Gun_ (why invent what canon gives you?!)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** So very much NOT mine and no profit is gained from writing this.  
>  **Spoilers:** None since it's a Skyfall AU.

Bond eased the syringe from the guard's neck and pocketed it before he carefully lowered the man to the ground and rolled him into the shadows. It was a point of honour with him never to kill anyone whom he wasn't being paid to kill, so the guard would simply sleep for several hours, before waking up to find it was all over. Of course, once he awoke and discovered just what had happened while he was in the arms of Morpheus, he might well wish that Bond _had_ killed him, but that was no concern of Bond's.

With a wry smile Bond let himself into the building, bypassing the electronic security system as easily as if he had the proper entry code. He wished he didn't have to take the lift up to the target's third floor flat, but the only other method of entry was via the fire escape, and there was too much risk of being spotted by a random passer-by, even at two o'clock in the morning. He overrode the security system on the lift and stepped inside; as it ascended he straightened his cuffs, then checked the knot of his tie was still correct. He'd been called vain more than once, but it never bothered him – appearances mattered as far as he was concerned, so he always ensured he looked smart and sophisticated, and as far from anyone's idea of an assassin as possible.

The lift stopped, the doors sliding open noiselessly, and Bond stepped out into a large sitting room, tastefully decorated and furnished. The room was dimly lit by the illumination of the street lamps outside, but Bond could see clearly enough to make his way across the room without banging into anything. He slipped through the archway that took him into the corridor that led to the other rooms. He'd been supplied with, and had thoroughly memorised, the architect's plans for not only this flat, but the entire building, so he headed straight for the master bedroom at the far end of the corridor, bypassing the kitchen on his left, and a guest bedroom on his right. The far left door opened onto a sizeable bathroom, he knew, and opposite was the target's bedroom.

He gently pushed open the door, which stood slightly ajar, and as he took two careful steps into the room he raised his right arm, the gun with its silencer clasped firmly in his right hand.

"I regret to inform you that the game is up." As the husky voice spoke coolly at his left, he became simultaneously aware of a knife blade pricking his side in the perfect position to pierce his heart, while the blunt-ended object in the middle of his back must surely be a firearm of some description.

"I suggest you put it down before someone gets hurt," said the voice.

She increased the pressure of both the knife and the gun just enough to emphasise her point, and while he knew he was several inches taller and around thirty years younger than the current head of MI6, he doubted that he could move fast enough to overpower her before she used one or both of her weapons against him.

"Very well," Bond said calmly, slowly lowering his arm, then bending his knees to place his gun on the floor. Both the knife and the gun remained steady in position as he moved, and he knew better than to try his luck at this moment. He was fairly sure he'd get a second bite at the cherry, however, since he knew he was the most creative of the assassins employed by the firm for which he worked.

As his gun touched the floor he felt an explosive force at his back, and he toppled forward, his last thought one of barely coherent rage as he registered that she'd shot him even though he'd complied with her instructions.

007-007-007

"He's quite handsome, isn't he?" mused Eve Moneypenny to her boss as she finished binding Bond's arms behind the straight-backed wooden chair she'd brought from the kitchen for the purpose of securing the assassin.

Olivia Mansfield, codenamed M, gave the man a brief, disdainful look, then returned her attention to the contents of his various pockets. "He's a fool," M told the young woman in a disparaging tone.

"A fool?" repeated Eve in surprise.

"Well, how else do you explain the fact that he accepted the task of trying to assassinate the current head of MI6? Only a fool would believe that they could succeed."

"Perhaps no one told him you were once a field agent, a Double-0, yourself?" Eve suggested.

"Then he's worse than a fool if he failed to do his homework properly," M said, her tone irritated.

The bedroom door swung open again and a dark-haired man stepped inside. "I have re-secured your perimeter, ma'am," he told M.

"Thank you, Mr Mallory. How's Mr Robson?"

"Making a good recovery," Mallory answered. "The MO was with him, and he was already sitting up and taking notice."

"Good."

"Do we know who he is yet, ma'am?" Mallory nodded towards the unconscious assassin.

M shook her head. "He's not carrying any ID at all. We'd better wake him up. Do the honours, please, Miss Moneypenny."

Eve nodded and picked up a different syringe to the one M had used on the assassin as he'd set down his gun. She administered the drug, put the syringe back in its case, then moved to stand at M's right hand; Mallory was already in position on M's left, and he and Eve both trained their weapons on the assassin as he began to stir into wakefulness.

Bond woke, feeling groggy, to find himself tied to a chair with three people facing him: in the middle was the head of MI6, her folded arms and scowling expression conveying utter contempt for him. Flanking her on the right was a slim, dark-skinned young woman, while on the left was a dark-haired man a few years older than himself. Both of them were armed, and their steady gazes and rock-steady aims told him without words that he'd better not try any sudden moves, at least not until he felt less groggy.

He looked up at the diminutive, white-haired woman and wondered ruefully how she'd managed to get the drop on him.

"Who are you, and who sent you to assassinate me?" she asked.

"Bond, James Bond." He smiled at her, giving her the full benefit of his charm, but she merely continued to glare at him. 

"Who sent you?" she repeated.

Bond shrugged. "I'm afraid I have no idea," he said pleasantly. "We field men and women don't deal directly with the clients. Everything's handled by the Office Manager."

M glared at him some more. "Not good enough, Mr Bond," she said. She jerked her head at the young woman. "Put him back under, and we'll take him to see Major Townsend. I'm sure he'll get more out of Mr Bond."

Bond's attention sharpened at her use of this name, and M gave a brief, mirthless laugh. "Don't bother memorising that name, Mr Bond. There's been a Major Townsend working for the Service for the last sixty years, if not longer. It's a codename, just like M, or 006 or 004." She gestured at the two agents beside her. "Knowing that name will get you nowhere."

Bond scowled, irritated with himself that he'd allowed her to see his interest in the name. He was more annoyed by her powers of observation than he was by the prospect of being knocked out again. After all, they'd have to wake him up again, and when they did, he'd use his well-trained powers of observation to learn all he could about his surroundings: such information could prove very valuable to someone, he knew.

Nevertheless, when 006, as M had designated the young woman, approached him with a syringe in order to knock him out, he gave her as intimidating a look as he could muster. She, however, merely gave him a knee-weakening smile before pushing up the unbuttoned sleeve of his shirt and administering the drug.

M had Mallory and Moneypenny take Bond downstairs to where M's Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner, was waiting for them in an inconspicuous black car borrowed from the MI6 car pool. He drove through London from M's building to Kensington Cloisters; Mallory and Moneypenny sat in the back on either side of the unconscious assassin. M followed in another Service car driven by her personal bodyguard who had, until now, remained off-stage in order to allow Bond to make his attempt on M's life. MI6 had learned, via clandestine means naturally, that an assassination attempt was imminent, but because they hadn't been able to ascertain who was behind the hit, M had taken the decision to allow the attempt to go ahead. 

She had arranged with Robson that he would allow himself to be taken out, trusting that the assassin wouldn't want to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. Mallory and Moneypenny had both urged her to remain at the office or wait elsewhere for them to bring in the assassin, a suggestion she'd treated with her customary acerbic scorn. As she was their boss, they could not over-rule her without going over her head, which would not have been well-received by M; as the head of MI6, she expected her staff to trust her decisions, so they'd consented to her plans, albeit reluctantly.

007-007-007

The two MI6 cars arrived in the mews at the rear of No. 44 Kensington Cloisters around three o'clock in the morning. Mallory and Moneypenny manhandled Bond inside, followed shortly by M and Tanner. 

The house was a Victorian mansion built of dull red brick which, many decades ago, had been the headquarters of the Empire League for Noise Abatement, and there was still a brass plaque bearing the name of this long-defunct organisation at the front entrance. MI6 had bought the empty property for a small sum in the Fifties, and had left the exterior much as they'd found it, while converting the interior for their own particular purposes. Besides the rear exit into a mews that saw little traffic of any description, it had a spacious, old-fashioned basement which they had equipped for use as detention cells. On the first floor was an extensive laboratory where analysis of DNA, handwriting and material of all kinds was carried out at a moment's notice. The second floor contained two offices and two bedrooms for the use of those working the night shift.

Mallory and Moneypenny carried Bond into a ground floor room with nothing but an old-fashioned gas fire which hissed irritatingly, and two straight-backed wooden chairs not dissimilar to the one Bond had recently occupied in M's flat. Overhead was a fluorescent strip light that flickered at one end, a fault that was deliberately never repaired since it was known to get on the nerves of a great many people, thus facilitating the work of men like Major Townsend. The light fitting also housed a small camera and microphone, both of which were connected to a monitoring room on the second floor.

Leaving Mallory outside the room in which Bond had been secured pending the arrival of Major Townsend, Tanner and Moneypenny accompanied M in the lift up to the second floor where they could watch Bond's interrogation in some comfort. Tanner switched on the flat screen monitor to which the camera and microphone were linked, then set up the software which would digitally record everything that took place as soon as the Major began his cross-examination of Bond.

Tanner settled into a chair on M's right-hand side, his tablet computer held ready for him to make notes on her behalf. Moneypenny, meanwhile, stood at M's left shoulder, her eyes fixed on the monitor. They only had to wait a few minutes before Major Townsend entered the room and administered another shot of the drug which Moneypenny had used to revive him earlier.

007-007-007

For the second time that evening, Bond regained consciousness to find himself bound to an uncomfortable chair, but this time his surroundings were unpleasant, and his interlocutor looked rather more intimidating than M or either of her agents.

Major Townsend was about the same height as Bond, but more heavily muscled; he had cold grey eyes, a nose that had been broken at some point in the past, and a thin, cruel-looking mouth. Bond immediately knew that this man would be more than capable of a little (or even a lot) judicious roughing up if he considered it a necessity, and Bond found himself vainly wishing that his boss had picked someone else from the firm to carry out the hit on the head of MI6. While he didn't consider himself weak or easily intimidated, Bond also knew that he'd never received any sort of training to help him to withstand a hostile interrogation, let alone torture, if it should come to that. 

The worst thing about his situation, he thought, was that he didn't know anything about the client who'd paid for M to be assassinated: Mr White never discussed such matters with his staff – he simply told them who was the target, and saw to it that they had all the data necessary to achieve the kill. Bond had worked for White's organisation for six years and he was unaware of any assassin getting caught before, and he was bitter that he'd been the one to break the firm's duck.

007-007-007

The hour that followed Bond's second awakening proved unproductive from M's point of view as it soon became abundantly clear that Bond really didn't know anything about the client who'd ordered M's assassination. By the end of the hour they knew everything that Bond knew about his boss, Mr White, and his organisation, but not the vital name of who'd ordered the hit. M was just about to send Moneypenny downstairs to tell Townsend to take Bond down to the cells, when Tanner spoke first,

"Ma'am, did you know that a Mr James Bond was once a trainee operative here at MI6?"

M gave Tanner a startled look. "How do you know that?"

"Once you passed on Bond's name, I queried our databases to see if we had anything on file about him. I just got the results back. Six and a half years ago, a Mr James Bond was recruited from the Royal Navy Special Boat Service, but he failed to complete his basic training. And six years ago, he joined Mr White's organisation."

M looked at the young man on the monitor, who was now sweating, dishevelled, and stripped down to the waist. "Why did he fail to complete his basic training?"

"During a training exercise in the Highlands, he failed to obey his commanding officer's orders and he got into a fight with another recruit. The other recruit had to spend a month in hospital before he was able to complete his training," answered Tanner.

M nodded, then got to her feet. "Then let us see if I can persuade him to get us the information we want."

M made her way downstairs, Moneypenny and Tanner at her heels. Mallory looked surprised when M approached him and told him to go inside to wait with Bond while she talked to Townsend, but he obeyed, and after a moment, Townsend came out.

He saluted M, since he habitually treated her as his senior commanding officer, and she gave him a brisk nod.

"I am sorry that I have been unable to persuade Mr Bond to divulge the name you required."

M shook her head slightly. "Even I do not expect miracles, Major. You cannot ascertain an answer from a man who does not know it, no matter how vigorously you try to persuade him."

The Major acquiesced, and M gave him a brief smile, then opened the door into the interrogation room. Mallory was standing facing Bond, his arms folded across his chest and his shoulders resting lightly against the wall, but she knew that he would leap into action should Bond try anything, not that she thought he would. An hour of Major Townsend's attentions had left him with bruises on his upper arms and back, but his face had remained untouched.

She glanced over at Mallory. "Unfasten him and then fetch some water for him, please, Mr Mallory."

He looked momentarily startled, and she could see the question forming in his eyes about the wisdom of leaving her alone with the man who'd already tried to assassinate her once, but she quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue, and he gave her a doubtful look before pushing himself off the wall. He went over to Bond and she watched as Mallory cut the plastic restraints holding Bond's arms behind the chair back, then she seated herself in the chair opposite Bond's while Mallory went out to fetch the water.

"I understand that you were recruited to join MI6," M observed, "but that you failed to complete your training."

Bond nodded as he rubbed at his wrists, which she saw looked red and sore where the plastic restraints had cut into his skin.

"My information is that you failed to obey your instructor while on a training exercise, then you got into a fight with a fellow recruit." She raised her eyebrows as she observed a dull flush come into his face, but there was a look of defiance in his eyes, too. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

Bond shook his head and as he continued to massage his wrists, the door opened and Mallory came in carrying a jug of water and a glass.

"Thank you, Mr Mallory. Wait outside, please." M took the jug and glass from him, pouring some water out for Bond, who saw Mallory's expression: he looked like a man who badly wanted to argue with his superior, but didn't dare.

M passed the glass of water to Bond, who took it and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls as Mallory went out again.

"Why are you trusting me?" asked Bond once he and M were alone again. "Do you think I couldn't kill you with my bare hands if I chose to?"

M lifted an eyebrow, her expression sardonic. "Do you choose to?"

Bond felt his shoulders slump and he shook his head. For some reason, rather to his dismay, he had taken an odd liking to this formidable woman. She gave him the impression that she could quite easily chop his balls off if he really pissed her off, but there was an unexpected streak of mercy in her too, or so it seemed to him in his current battered state.

"Tell me what happened in the Highlands."

It was a command, and he obeyed, even as he wondered just how she'd managed to turn the tables on him so completely. He explained how a recruit, whom he only referred to as 'the Spaniard', had sabotaged the training exercise for Bond and two of his fellow recruits, with the result that his attempts had left the other two injured and stranded at the bottom of a ravine as a storm approached. Bond's instructor had ordered him to wait for the Search and Rescue people to arrive, rather than attempting to rescue them himself.

"So why didn't you wait?" asked M, and although her tone was one of mild enquiry, Bond still fired up,

"Would you have waited if you knew the only reason your two fellows were in trouble was because of you?" He glared at her. "The Spaniard took against me from the outset, natural antipathy, I suppose." He gave a half shrug. "And he resented the fact that I'd been with the Special Boat Service before MI6 recruited me."

"And I don't suppose you made too much effort to get on with him, did you?" asked M, her tone still mild, but what looked like veiled amusement in her eyes.

"No," agreed Bond readily. "Although I would have tried harder if I'd suspected he planned to take it out on Steel and Philips when we were teamed up."

"So you decided to mount a rescue yourself, disobeying your instructor in the process." Bond nodded. "And did you effect the rescue?"

He nodded again. "I got them both out, although the storm hit as I was carrying Philips up the last few metres of rope. And the Search and Rescue team didn't arrive until nearly half an hour later. If they'd stayed down in the ravine, they would both have been suffering from hypothermia, and in danger of contracting pneumonia as well, by the time they were finally rescued."

"Where does the fight come in?" asked M, her expression betraying no hint of her thoughts about what Bond had done.

"After we got back to the camp, I went after the Spaniard," Bond said. "I didn't regret beating the shit out of him." He gave her another defiant look. "Sabotaging me, I could accept, but not sabotaging the other two as well. He only did it because Robinson teamed them up with me – and that was literally the luck of the draw."

"What made you choose to go and work for Mr White? After all, you had been serving Queen and Country all of your adult life until then – or was the shine off that after what happened in the Highlands?"

Bond gave a half shrug, then poured himself some more water from the jug which M had set on the floor between their chairs. "I suppose it was," he agreed, somewhat reluctantly since he knew he hadn't really examined his motives too closely. "The money's good, and while it can be a risky job, the work is relatively easy. And I am good at what I do."

M noticed the hint of pride in his voice and made a mental note to have Tanner look up Bond's records in full. She felt sure that Six would have retained his files even though he had been scrubbed as a potential agent; she was particularly curious about his service record with the Royal Navy.

"I'm considering letting you go," she told him, and gave him a half-smile when she saw his astonishment. "But there is a condition."

Bond's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Of course there is. What's the condition?"

"Find out who paid for the hit on me," she said, watching him closely. "If you can get me that information, within a week, there will be no formal consequences for your attempt on my life tonight."

"And if I refuse?"

He asked the question, but she already knew it was a mere formality: she could see his acceptance in his eyes.

"We'll bring the full weight of the Law down on your head – yours and Mr White's."

"I don't seem to have much choice but to agree," he observed, his expression rueful.

M shook her head slightly. "No, I don't believe you have."

"Very well. I accept your terms, but I should tell you that I don't have the first idea about how to get the information. Obviously I'll need to hack into Mr White's computer, but I wouldn't know where to start."

M smiled. "Don't worry about that, Mr Bond. We can help you with that."

Bond snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

007-007-007

Bond was given a bed in the building to which M and her agents had conveyed him in the early hours. He was allowed a few hours sleep before they gave him breakfast, then he was taken into one of the second floor offices where he met with a dark-haired, bespectacled young man whom Major Townsend, who was acting as Bond's 'host', introduced as 'Q'. Bond couldn't help thinking the young man looked like a twelve year old computer geek, but he maintained his poker face so that Q wouldn't know how unimpressed Bond was with him.

Half an hour later, as it became apparent that Q really did know his stuff, Bond felt some relief that he hadn't betrayed his disdain earlier. Instead, he listened and learned, memorising the steps he would need to carry out in order to hack into Mr White's computer. He felt as if most of the detail was going over his head, but Q reassured him that he didn't really need to understand, so long as he followed Q's instructions to the letter.

"I can do that," Bond told him, rather nettled by Q's 'I'm-talking-to-an-idiot' tone.

"Just as long as you do," the young man retorted.

Bond scowled as Q went out, accompanied by Major Townsend. The young woman codenamed 006 came into the office as the two men left, and she gave Bond another of her knee-weakening smiles.

"I've come to get you out of here," she told him.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're not simply going to show me the door?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "I can't do that, I'm afraid, Mr Bond. But hey, at least this time I won't knock you out first."

"Call me James," he suggested, giving her his own version of the knee-weakening smile.

"I think not, Mr Bond," 006 answered. "I'm going to blindfold you and restrain your wrists so that you can't take off the blindfold, then take you down to the car.

Bond sighed, then held out his arms in front of his body, and 006 gave him a smile such as a mother might bestow on a child who was doing as he was told for once.

After fastening the blindfold over his eyes, 006 took hold of his arm and guided him from the room, along the corridor, and into the lift he'd come up in a few hours earlier. She led him out of house to a waiting car, and he felt her hand press down on the top of his head as she guided him into the back of the car, before she climbed in beside him.

007-007-007

As Moneypenny was escorting Bond home, M was sitting in her Vauxhall Cross office high above the Thames, familiarising herself with the files pertaining to the former Commander of the Royal Navy.

She found herself unsurprised to read that Bond, while excelling at athletic competitions, counter-intelligence courses, and strategic operations during his time at the Britannia Royal Naval College, had got into trouble with his superiors, particularly in regard to his cavalier attitude to the curfew, and that he'd done less well that he might have in his coursework despite possessing 'a good brain'. 

She saw that after a year of sea service he'd applied for, and been highly recommended for, work in Naval Intelligence by his Warrant Officers and Chief Petty Officers. M couldn't help feeling impressed that Bond had served as an intelligence officer aboard HMS Exeter during the Gulf War before he was transferred to submarine service, touring aboard HMS Turbulent. She noted the way his commanding officers all praised his natural abilities, his mental quickness, and his self-confidence, and bit her lip in thought. It was beginning to look like the recruiters had failed an extremely able and talented candidate who would have been a valuable agent for the Service.

She turned to the section detailing Bond's training for the Special Boat Service, and learned that he'd excelled at the Underwater and Aquatic Warfare training, constantly equalling or besting his instructors and superior officers after only nominal training. She discovered, too, that he possessed a good deal of cunning, coming up with such an ingenious way to evade the sonar systems and underwater infra-red cameras during a night-time limpet-placing exercise in Plymouth that his techniques had been included for use in future training exercises.

Reading the account of his Advance Commando Parachute training at Brize Norton, M was unsurprised to find that Bond was capable of a personal bravery combined with a level-headedness in an emergency that was invaluable to a Secret Service field agent. He'd spotted that the man who'd jumped from the training plane ahead of him had panicked when his ripcord pin sheared, causing the main parachute to malfunction. Bond had repositioned himself in order to aerially intercept his fellow trainee so that he could deploy the other man's parachute at approximately 450 metres above the ground. Bond himself had not deployed his own parachute until 250 metres, but he had escaped without serious injury. His fellow trainee had, unfortunately, shattered his hip on landing, but everyone acknowledged that it was thanks to Bond's timely intervention the other trainee had avoided being killed or permanently injured.

M shook her head slightly, then turned in her chair to stare unseeingly out of the window. If Bond pulled off the task she'd given him – and she now had greater confidence that he would achieve the goal she'd set him – she fully intended to make him a member of her team. With all of his training and experience he was wasted working as a mere assassin, and she had it in mind to eventually make him a part of the elite Double-0 section.

She turned back to the file and was not surprised, with all she'd read before, to learn that Bond had been made a member of the 030 Special Forces Unit on completing his training, rather than being deployed to one of the standard Special Boat Services units in Poole.

There was a list of certificates attached to his file, detailing his ability to operate a number of vehicles and craft, including hovercraft, assault helicopters, armoured vehicles, Harrier-class jets, and fixed-wing aircraft. 

"Bloody idiots," she groused in a low voice. She had a good mind to find whomever had recommended Bond's dismissal from the Service's recruitment programme, and tear them off a strip or two for their lack of common sense.

Bond's record for the three years he'd spent with 030 SFU, and his subsequent service with the Defence Intelligence Group at the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre in Chicksands, clearly demonstrated just how valuable to her he could have been, despite his continuing casual attitude toward command structure and protocols. Such an attitude could be forgiven to a large extent, she felt, for the sake of having a man of Bond's talents, experience, and brilliance under her.

007-007-007 

Bond was let out of the car, after 006 had relieved him of the blindfold and restraints, near his flat. M had told him, before she had departed for home in the early hours of the morning, that she would contact him in seven days unless he rang her on the special number she had given him. He suspected it was the number for a disposable mobile phone, but he didn't really blame her for not giving him her direct contact number: she was the head of the Secret Service, after all, and while she clearly had access to the details of his failed attempt to join MI6, he must still be a largely unknown quantity.

He wondered, as he let himself into his flat, whether she would allow him to go after whoever had set up the contract on her: MI6 was, ultimately, foreign intelligence, and he had a shrewd idea that they would hardly want to admit to anyone in MI5 that someone had tried to kill their chief. Bond felt that it would be only right and proper for him to be the one to take out whoever had hired him to take out M. Besides, he owed her a favour for not turning him over to the police; given his track record over the last six years with Mr White's organisation, he could expect to be locked up for the rest of his life for a number of previously unsolved murders if he was turned in with Mr White.

Bond was loathe to admit it, even to himself, but he'd lost his heart to M, just a tiny bit. He couldn't help admiring the fact that she had taken him on herself when she could just as easily have remained safely out of the way and left her agents to capture and bring him in for questioning. He suspected, from the attitudes of the two agents, that her decision to get involved had been unpopular, and probably deemed risky too.

He'd always admired courage, whoever possessed it, but when the courage in question was being displayed by a woman thirty years his senior, someone whom most people would have labelled as 'an old lady', then his respect was also engaged. In addition, although she barely topped five feet, and was no longer young, Bond found M gorgeous: she had a deliciously curvy figure (he'd never been one for women who resembled stick insects), compelling blue eyes, a cap of white hair, and an almost palpable aura of power.

As he ran a hot shower and picked up the shower gel, he realised ruefully that he'd been wrong: he'd lost more than a little bit of his heart to M, and he wondered what she'd say if he told her just how profoundly she had affected him. He had a sneaking suspicion that she'd either laugh in his face, or roll her eyes, and the thought of such a reaction stung him.

As he turned the shower from hot to cold water and prepared to rinse himself clean, it occurred to him that perhaps the best way to impress M would be to track down whomever had hired him to kill M and take them to her. She would surely have to take him seriously in those circumstances.

007-007-007

M's first step after she had finished reading Bond's Naval service records was to set Tanner the task of tracking down Charles Robinson, the man who had been in charge of the training exercise which had caused so much trouble to James Bond.

Once she'd set Tanner to work on that, she called in Moneypenny and Mallory in turn to brief them on their next missions. By the time Tanner ushered in a tall, dark-skinned man whom he introduced as Charles Robinson, M's temper was rather frayed at the edges: her briefings with Mallory and Moneypenny had been followed by a handful of meetings with various government 'busybodies', as she called them (though not to their faces, to Tanner's relief), and such meetings tended to make her irritable.

As a result, M's greeting to Robinson was only just the right side of curt, and she saw him dart a look at Tanner as the latter went back to his own work, as if he'd hoped Tanner would remain to neutralise the tension.

Seeing that look, she made herself rein in her temper, and she spoke courteously to Robinson as she offered him a seat, then some tea or coffee.

"No, thank you, ma'am," he said, and she gave a nod.

"Very well. I'll come straight to the point. Whose was the final decision to terminate the training of James Bond, former Commander of the Royal Navy?"

Robinson looked startled by the questions, and he rubbed a finger along his top lip before he answered.

"As I recall, ma'am, the final decision was taken by Mike Reynolds – he was in charge of training recruits at that time."

"And did you recommend that Bond's training be terminated?" M asked. The question came out more harshly than she'd intended, but she was damned if she was going to apologise.

"I did, ma'am. While Bond's rescue of his fellow recruits, Philips and Steel, showed a great deal of bravery, he disobeyed a direct order, and not for the first time. For all that he was a former naval officer, Bond had a bad habit of treating orders as mere suggestions, to be complied with it he felt like it, or if it wasn't too inconvenient. But that wasn't the worst thing."

M lifted an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.

"He attacked a fellow trainee, Tiago Rodriguez, whom he believed was responsible for sabotaging his and the others' equipment. He had no business taking matters into his own hands after I told him that would be a full enquiry into the incident, and that disciplinary measures would be taken if Rodriguez was found guilty." Robinson glowered at the recollection, then looked up at M. "Rodriguez was unconscious for three days after the beating Bond gave him, and it was a month before he'd recovered sufficiently from his injuries to resume his training. We couldn't allow Bond to stay after that – insubordination we might have overlooked since Bond was instrumental in saving two lives, but no one could overlook violence of that kind."

M bit back a retort, knowing that she couldn't really argue with this logic, even though she'd been ready to tear strips off Robinson, and his superior, for letting go a trainee of Bond's calibre. 

Then she frowned as she realised that the name Rodriguez rang a bell, and after a moment she placed it: Rodriguez had recently been put forward for consideration for the Double-0 section. She remembered that he was a computer expert who worked as a field agent under the control of Station Co.

M nodded to her visitor. "Thank you for coming in Mr Robinson, and for the information you have given me."

He did his best to disguise his relief at being dismissed, but M detected it nonetheless.

"Mr Tanner will see you out," she told Robinson, buzzing Tanner to notify him that her visitor was leaving.

As Robinson departed M swivelled her chair around to gaze unseeingly out of the window. Rodriguez, field agent 114, had been put forward for consideration for the Double-0 section by the Station Head in Columbia, but M had turned down 114 on the advice of the recently retired Station Head, Fred Allam. He was a very shrewd judge of character and M had known him back in the days when she'd been a Double-0 agent herself. If there was anyone's judgement she trusted besides her own, it was Allam's, and he'd warned her that 114 was 'a tricky bastard', a sentiment that appeared to be borne about by both Bond's and Robinson's accounts of that fateful training exercise.

Turning back to her desk, M queried the Personnel database to see what punishment, if any, had been meted out to 114 for his sabotage of the training exercise for Bond, Steel and Philips. Pulling up the relevant record, she was not very surprised to find that 114 had been found guilty, but had not been punished as Reynolds had deemed the beating he'd received from Bond to be sufficient punishment.

M found herself seething on Bond's behalf, and a fresh determination to make him a member of Six, once he'd found the information about White's client, surged through her. If they could employ 'a tricky bastard' like 114, then _she_ could employ James Bond, and she'd defy anyone to say otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

Bond settled down at the desk in the corner of his sitting room and started up his laptop. He stretched his fingers in the manner of a concert pianist about to give a recital, then bent to the keyboard and began to type.

It took him longer than the hour which Q had predicted, but that was because Bond double-checked his instructions every step of the way because the last thing he wanted was to screw this up.

Finally, though, he had the name of Mr White's client: a Mr Raoul Silva had paid for the assassination of the head of MI6. The name didn't mean anything to Bond, but he wondered if it would to M. He didn't immediately reach for his phone, however; it seemed to him that it would be wise to find out a bit more about Mr Silva, and while he didn't doubt that M – or her staff – was capable of doing that, he was curious enough to hold off on ringing M right away.

He looked up the address Silva had given to White, and was somehow unsurprised to discover it was a fake. He sat looking at his laptop screen for a few minutes, then he began typing again, following the same steps which Q had given to him, but this time he was querying the electoral register for one Raoul Silva.

The response came back negative, but Bond had suspected that it was a long shot anyway; it was simply that the electoral register seemed the most obvious place to start his search. He wondered whether this Silva was more likely to be in a hotel or a short-let flat somewhere. In Silva's shoes, Bond would prefer the flat because it afforded greater privacy than a hotel, however anonymous the latter was. And while he had no idea what else Silva might be doing in London, he couldn't help thinking that a man who had taken out a hit on the head of MI6 would be far more likely to value privacy over any perceived comforts at a hotel. He bent over the keyboard again, and began searching for details of the various London agencies which handled short-let flats.

Two hours later, Bond had an address, but he still didn't reach for his phone to contact M. Instead, he began querying the airlines for Silva's details, and it took him less time than he'd imagined to discover that a Mr Raoul Silva had flown from Coronel FAP Francisco Secada Vignetta International Airport in Iquitos, Peru. This immediately made him suspicious since he knew that Iquitos, while it was Peru's fifth largest city, was completely inaccessible by road: the only routes in or out of the city were by air or river.

Bond pulled up a map of South America and stared at it: Iquitos was not that far from the border with Colombia, and Colombia was the drug capital of the world. No doubt it was well supplied with men who had lots of money to burn, enough to hire a contract killer. If Silva was actually a drug lord from Colombia, he might have flown from there to Iquitos in order to cover his tracks. He wondered why Silva had wanted M dead, and concluded that MI6 must have done something to smash Silva's drug-trafficking ring, or something similar to have pissed him off to that extent.

Bond shook his head slightly, then got to his feet, stretched, and went to make himself some lunch. As he prepared an omelette, he wondered what he was going to do next. He knew that he could simply give M the information which he'd amassed about Silva, and leave it to her to deal with the man, but somehow it didn't feel like enough. He was aware that he wanted to impress M properly, and abruptly he remembered his first schoolboy crush. This was different, however; he told himself that the reason he wanted to impress M was because she had so impressed him the night before. He'd never met a woman like her, and he wished now that he hadn't been forced off the MI6 training programme (even if it was his fault he'd been kicked out). If he'd become a member of the Secret Intelligence Service, M would now be his boss.

He growled wordlessly, annoyed with the direction his thoughts were taking, and turned his mind back to the task he'd set himself.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to go and take a look at Silva before he spoke to M. With that decision made, he went into his bedroom to change into more casual clothing than the three-piece suit he habitually wore, then he grabbed the file on Silva that he'd put together before he headed out of his flat and down to his car.

It only took him ten minutes to get to the block of flats where Silva was staying, but Bond then spent another ten minutes trying to find a parking spot that wouldn't earn him a ticket, but wasn't too far away from Silva's flat either. Once there, he settled down to wait.

007-007-007

M finally got home at seven o'clock that evening, and kicked off her shoes just inside the door with a sense of relief that she wouldn't have to go out again this evening.

She had got her driver to stop off on the way home so that she could pick up a take-away and she carried the plastic bag that was wafting the scent of Thai curry through to the kitchen where she assembled it on a plate. She grabbed some cutlery and a napkin, putting everything onto a tray, which she carried through into the sitting room. She put the tray on the coffee table, then poured herself a Scotch before sitting down and turning on the television. She had recorded a programme at the weekend which she wanted to watch and now was a good time to do so.

An hour later, just as the programme's closing credits had started to roll, the intercom by her front door buzzed. She sighed, then switched off the television before making her way to the door.

"Sorry to disturb you ma'am," said Robson, "but I've got Mr Bond here. Do you want to come down to talk to him?"

M frowned, wondering why Bond had come to see her, instead of telephoning her as they had arranged.

"Did he say what he wants?" She heard a brief conversation in the background before Robson answered.

"He says he's got something to show you – something you'll like."

M frowned again, then shrugged. "All right, Mr Robson, tell Mr Bond that I'll be down shortly."

"Yes ma'am."

M found her shoes and put them on with a wince for her aching feet, then she pulled on her coat and stepped into the lift, which took her down to the lobby where she found Robson looking perturbed, and Bond looking like a puppy who's successfully fetched a thrown stick for the first time.

"What do you want to show me, Mr Bond?"

"It's in my car," he said, with a quick gesture out of the front door.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, but he merely smiled, so she sighed. "Very well. No, stay here, Mr Robson," she added as he prepared to follow them outside.

"But ma'am – " he began in protest.

"You can keep an eye on me from the steps," M told him, and he subsided, but she could see from his expression that he was unhappy about her orders.

She followed Bond down the steps, then along the pavement to where a car was parked half on the road, and half on the pavement.

"What have you brought me?" she asked as Bond hurried forward and unlocked the boot of the car.

"The client who set me up to assassinate you," he said quietly. He opened the boot and M couldn't help emitting a small gasp of startlement when she saw a body inside.

"You haven't – " she began, appalled.

"He's still alive," Bond said swiftly, "just out cold." He reached down and hauled up the man's upper body, and M took an unconscious step backwards when saw the man's face.

"But that's – "

"Raoul Silva," Bond told her. "Better known to you and I as Tiago Rodriguez."

"Well, I'll be damned. How did he end up in the boot of your car?"

Bond dropped Rodriguez unceremoniously back down, then closed and locked the boot. "That's a bit of a story."

"You'd better come inside and tell me, then." She led the way back into the building, and ushered him into the lift.

"I hope you like my present," Bond said as they rode up to the third floor.

M chuckled. "You know, I do. But I hope you don't make a habit of giving unconscious men to women?"

Bond ducked his head. "No ma'am, only you."

She raised her eyebrows as she noted a flush colouring his cheeks and the shy smile he gave her when he looked up again, and it suddenly hit her that he was attracted to her. She felt her own cheeks heating up as she contemplated the idea of a man thirty years her junior being attracted to her. She ought to dismiss the idea, because it was quite preposterous, but somehow she couldn't.

"Have a seat," she said with a quick gesture at the sofa. She walked over to the window and looked down at Bond's car in the street below.

"Just how do you come to have Tiago Rodriguez in the boot of your car, Mr Bond?" M didn't look around at him as she spoke because she didn't want the sight of him to distract her from his tale.

"I found out the name of Mr White's client easily enough following the instructions I was given, but when I checked the address given by the client, one Raoul Silva, I found it was a fake. So then I checked the electoral roll and found that there was no one by the name of Raoul Silva on it, which made me suspect the man didn't live here. So I checked the databases of the short-let flats in London."

"Why not the hotels?" asked M curiously.

"Because I suspected he valued his privacy too much even for an anonymous hotel," Bond answered, and M found herself impressed by his reasoning. He really would make a good agent.

As Bond described how he had tracked down Silva, or Rodriguez as he soon realised the man was, he found himself reliving his encounter with the Spaniard.

Two hours earlier

Bond had been waiting outside Silva's building for an hour when he was finally rewarded for his patience. Silva was driven up in a black cab, and after paying his fare, he swaggered inside. It was the swagger that told Bond this was the man he was after, and the man's real identity – he'd seen that self-same swaggering walk often enough during his six months of training for MI6. He appeared to have put on weight, and to have dyed his hair a horrible blond, but there was no doubt in Bond's mind that the man calling himself Raoul Silva was actually Tiago Rodriguez.

All this went through Bond's mind as he scrambled out of his car and hurried after Rodriguez. He wondered why Rodriguez would have taken out a contract against M who, if Rodriguez still worked for MI6, was Rodriguez's ultimate boss within the service. During their conversation in the early hours of the morning, M hadn't given any indication that she knew any more about Rodriguez than she had learned from reading Bond's file, although he acknowledged to himself that she might have misled him on that score.

Glancing at the lift and seeing from the indicator beside the door that it was rising, Bond hurried up the stairs to the first floor landing, and saw that the lift was still rising, so he ran up the second flight of stairs, then the third before he heard the lift stopping and the doors opening. Bond waited out of sight at the head of the stairs as Rodriguez made his way to a door at the far end of the corridor, then let himself into the flat.

Bond crept down the corridor towards the door and saw that it had a straight-forward Yale lock. With a cold smile he made his way rapidly back downstairs and over to his car, where he opened the boot and took out his private kit for breaking and entering. After a quick glance up and down the road, and up at the surrounding windows, he also took out a leather jacket and a shoulder holster; slipping on the holster, then the jacket, he picked up his Walther PPK and slotted it away.

He returned to Rodriguez's building, then made his way back up to the third floor, again via the stairs. Listening carefully at the door of Rodriguez's flat, he could just faintly hear the sound of running water, and he smiled even more coldly, then let himself into the flat with the minimum of fuss or bother.

Once inside he secured the door, checked the windows were locked, and cut the phone line, then made his way to the source of the shower and his target. He hoped he had enough of an advantage of surprise to capture Rodriguez without the necessity for shooting him – although he would do so if he had to.

Bond opened the bathroom door and saw Rodriguez was in the walk-in shower in the corner of the room. He stalked across, flung open the door as violently as he could, and when Rodriguez turned around, surprise at the intrusion writ large upon his face, Bond punched him in the solar plexus. Rodriguez doubled up, gasping for air, and Bond grabbed his shoulders and yanked him out of the shower and onto the floor.

"What the – You!" yelled Rodriguez as he recognised his attacker as Bond put one knee in his groin and pressed firmly.

"Hello Tiago," he said pleasantly, but his smile, he knew, was as cold as ice. "Long time no see, _old friend_."

Rodriguez tried to heave Bond off his body, but found he couldn't. "What are you doing here?" he gasped.

"I just wanted a little chat, for old times' sake, before I take you to meet someone."

"Who?" demanded Rodriguez.

"Ah, ah. Don't be naughty," Bond chided. "You'll spoil the surprise."

Before Rodriguez could respond, Bond squeezed his neck, pinching his carotid arteries on either side for just long enough to cause Rodriguez to black out. Bond got to his feet, then moved around to grab hold of the Spaniard's shoulders; he dragged Rodriguez into the sitting room, then hauled him up onto a chair similar to the two in which he'd been restrained during the early hours of the morning. Like Bond, Rodriguez was restrained with a plastic tie (Bond carried some with him at all times), then Bond got out his gun and aimed it at Rodriguez before he slapped his face to rouse him from his black out.

Bond saw with satisfaction that the Spaniard looked dismayed at the predicament in which he found himself.

"Now then," Bond said softly, "I want some answers from you before I take you to see my new friend."

"What if I don't answer?" asked Rodriguez in a surly tone.

"Why then I'll be obliged to shoot you," Bond said calmly. "Don't worry, I'll only shoot to injure, not to kill, not unless you _really_ piss me off, of course."

"What do you want to know?" asked Rodriguez with a snarl.

Bond could see the hate in the Spaniard's eyes and he reminded himself to stay alert and not get complacent, because if he could, Rodriguez would definitely turn the tables on Bond.

"I want to know why you approached Mr White and paid him to have the head of MI6 assassinated."

Rodriguez snarled again. "Because that stupid old bitch is holding me back. She keeps promoting people to the Double-0 section, but it's always someone else, never me. Last time she even promoted a woman!"

The scorn in Rodriguez's voice would have made Bond laugh in other circumstances, but in this instance he felt a chill run down his spine. M had referred to the two agents who had been waiting in her flat with her as double-0s – 004 and 006, specifically. He presumed the double-0 code had a special significance, although he was about to betray his ignorance on that score by asking Rodriguez to elaborate.

He wondered if the young, dark-skinned woman whom M had referred to as 004, was the newly-promoted agent, then pushed the thought aside.

"Are you telling me that you hired an assassin to kill your ultimate boss simply because she wouldn't promote you?" Bond wondered if he'd misunderstood.

"What if I did?" asked Rodriguez.

Bond shook his head slightly. "You know, you never used to be so stupid. Devious and cowardly, yes, but not stupid."

Rodriguez roared, lurching upwards, bringing the chair with him perforce, but Bond's reflexes were quicker than Rodriguez suspected, and he shot the Spaniard in the leg, then reversed his grip on his gun and hit Rodriguez with the butt, knocking him out and down.

He shook his head again, marvelling at the Spaniard's stupidity, then he bent over the fallen man. The bullet wound in his leg wasn't too deep, but Bond supposed he'd better bandage it before he did anything else.

He went into the bathroom and turned off the shower, then found the first aid kit and carried it through to the sitting room. He patched up Rodriguez's leg in a rough-and-ready fashion, then he went into the bedroom and fetched some clothes.

Dressing an unconscious man wasn't an easy task, but he managed it. He noticed that the Spaniard hadn't merely gained muscle, as he'd initially assumed when he'd first seen him outside. Instead he was quite flabby, and Bond was surprised since he knew that Rodriguez had been a gym fiend when they'd been trainees together.

He pushed the thought aside as less than relevant, and straightened up, after getting Rodriguez's shoes onto his feet. The next step was to get Rodriguez down to Bond's car; it wasn't so much carrying Rodriguez that bothered Bond – he could use a fireman's lift – it was the possibility of bumping into someone en route. Unfortunately, it was a risk Bond had to take if he was to get the Spaniard to M.

007-007-007

"And did you bump into anyone?" M still hadn't turned around to look at Bond; she had remained by the window, her eyes on his car, throughout his recital.

"No ma'am, no one."

Finally she made herself turn to look at Bond. "Well, I can't fault you for finding and capturing our man," she said, and observed the way his blue eyes lit up at her words. "Although I'm not sure that I entirely approve of your methods. It would been more sensible – and practical – if you had telephoned me to give me Mr Rodriguez's name and address, then I could have sent a couple of my agents to collect him."

"Yes ma'am." His tone was subdued as he answered her, and the light had gone out of his eyes.

"But you did a good job, Mr Bond, and I am sufficiently impressed by what you've done, and by your previous training record, to want to see you in the Service – that is, if you still want to work for us?"

He looked stunned, then smiled like a small boy who's just been given a longed-for treat. "Yes, please."

"There is one condition, however," M said, and when he nodded, she elaborated, "I want you to be seen by Sir James Moloney, who's our top neurologist. I shall need a full psychological report if I'm to justify employing you to my paymasters. After all, you did beat a fellow trainee into unconsciousness."

Bond's posture stiffened in response to her condition, but after a moment, he gave a brief nod of agreement. "Very well, ma'am. Thank you."

M nodded. "Well, I suppose I had better get someone to come and collect Mr Rodriguez and take him away, then you can go home. Mr Tanner, my second in command, will be in touch with you to notify you of your appointment with Sir James."

Bond got to his feet and M walked with him to the door. "Thank you for the second chance, ma'am. And goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr Bond." She held out her hand, and was not entirely surprised when he raised it and kissed the back, instead of merely shaking hands. She felt a jolt of excitement shoot through her body at the sensation of his soft, supple lips on her skin, and she hoped she wasn't blushing.

As Bond rode downstairs in the lift, M turned to the telephone to set wheels in motion, and tried not to imagine how Bond's lips would feel on other parts of her body, then she sighed at her own foolishness.

Epilogue (Six months later)

Bond let himself into his hotel suite in Prague, and immediately stood still, sensing there was someone else there already. Then he smiled wolfishly as he identified a familiar perfume wafting from the sofa near the fireplace. He turned around and locked the door, then said, "Hello, M."

The lamp on the coffee table in front of the sofa clicked on as he turned to face this unexpected, but not unwelcome, visitor.

"Good evening, 007."

Bond's breath hitched in surprise at being addressed thus.

"Ma'am." He stood stock still, drinking in the sight of his diminutive boss: she looked calm and elegant, and also, he couldn't help admitting to himself, eminently fuckable. Her cap of short white hair shone in the dim light, as did the white shirt she wore – indeed the latter seemed almost transparent as he could easily see the outline of the bra she wore beneath it. The shirt was paired with a short black skirt which showed a good deal of stockinged leg as she sat with her right leg crossed over her left knee.

His cock stirred and stiffened in response to the sight of M, and he decided he didn't care whether or not she noticed his growing arousal.

"Allow me to congratulate you, 007, on a job well done."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Why don't you come and sit down, and we can have a drink to celebrate," she suggested. She nodded at the champagne bottle nestling in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, and the two crystal glasses beside it.

Bond smiled. "Thank you, ma'am." He toed off his shoes, then began to unfasten his tie as he walked across the room towards her.

He noticed that her shoes were on the floor beside the sofa, and that the top two buttons of her shirt were undone, exposing her cleavage, and he had to bite back a moan of longing. They had been flirting incessantly – but very discreetly – even since they had met six months ago, and now he couldn't help wondering if that flirtation was going to come to a head at last.

He sat down on the sofa beside her, as close as he could get without touching, and reached for the bottle of champagne. Opening it, he filled the two glasses, then offered one to M. Her fingers brushed his as she took the glass and he inhaled silently as a spasm of desire shook him. 

"Thank you, James."

Bond nearly spilled his champagne at the caressing note in her voice as she used his first name; she had never before addressed him as anything other than 'Bond' or his agent number. He hadn't realised how much he'd wanted her to call him James until the moment when she did.

She clinked her glass against his. "Here's to a long and successful career as 007."

"Thank you, ma'am." He was glad his voice came out steadily because he felt quite shaky. He took a couple of mouthfuls of his drink, unable to tear his eyes away from M's mouth as she sipped her own champagne. He speculated about what her lips would feel like on his own, or on his skin; he wondered if she would suck or bite his nipples, or if she would swirl her tongue around the head of his cock before sucking it into her mouth, and he felt his cock swell and surge in response to the images he was conjuring up.

He stood up abruptly, setting down his glass so carelessly that he almost missed the coffee table.

"Are you going somewhere, James?"

He wasn't at all sure he wasn't imagining the seductive tone in M's voice, but he knew that if he didn't get to the bathroom quickly, he was going to embarrass himself, and no doubt M as well.

"Will you excuse me for a few minutes, please, ma'am?" he asked quickly, his voice definitely shaky now.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, James."

"Believe me, ma'am, it's vital."

M caught hold of his wrist and gave it such a sudden, sharp tug, that he lost his balance and fell back onto the sofa. "My dear boy, I assure you it's not."

Bond gasped as she slid her hand up his thigh and squeezed it just inches from his throbbing cock. "Let me help you with that," she suggested, and before he could do more than offer a strangled affirmation, her hands were unfastening his trousers.

To his relief she pulled the material aside so that his erection bobbed out without her touching it. Having got so far, Bond was rather surprised when M leaned back and looked up into his face.

"Are you sure you're all right with me doing this?"

"Oh god, yes! Please M!" He didn't care that he was begging her, all he cared about was getting some relief before he burst.

She smirked up at him from under her lashes and he clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching for her head and pulling it down to his cock. Then she bent forwards and blew gently over the head of his cock, and he yelped in shock.

To his relief she didn't torment him any further, she simply opened her mouth and moved down lower into his lap so that his prick slid deep into her throat. Then she withdrew slowly, her teeth scraping very lightly along the length of his shaft.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" chanted Bond in a hoarse mutter, still clenching his fists, although he couldn't help his hips from rising as he tried to keep his cock inside her warm throat.

M withdrew her mouth completely and looked up at him with a serious expression, all hint of teasing or flirtation gone. "If you come now, will you be able to fuck me later?" He gave her a surprised look, and she added, "I haven't been with a man your age since I _was_ your age, and that's thirty years ago."

He noticed she was blushing slightly, and he lifted his right hand from the sofa to cup her cheek. "Yes, I will. Not right away, of course, but within a couple of hours."

M's quietly voiced, "Good", was all the warning she gave of her intentions before she was sliding her mouth back down the length of his cock, then her tongue was swirling around the head before she traced the vein on the underside of his shaft, and then he was fucking her mouth as she teased his balls. But it was when she hummed against his skin that he actually lost control and began to come with a strangled cry of pleasure.

M leaned back again and looked up, licking her lips, and Bond groaned, then reached out and lifted her onto his lap. He kissed her, tasting himself on her mouth, and as they kissed, he slipped his hand under her skirt so that he could touch her.

"Mmm. James. What a good boy you are," she murmured as his fingers slid over her silk-covered pussy lips. 

She squeaked in surprise when he suddenly stood up, holding her body close to his.

"I want to do this properly," he told her, and carried her through into the bedroom where he carefully set her down on the bed.

"Where are you going?" M asked in surprise as he turned away again.

He threw a glance at her over his shoulder and smirked. "To fetch the champagne, ma'am."

As he moved into the other room, M reflected that she'd have to give him a name to use, and when he returned, the bottle in its ice bucket in one hand, and the two glasses in the other, she said, "My name is Olivia."

He set down his burden, then climbed onto the bed beside her. "I'm pleased to meet you, Olivia." He leaned down to kiss her again, once more reaching under her skirt, and she smiled against his mouth when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her silk knickers and tugged them off.

M was soon moaning in pleasure as Bond's long fingers worked in and out of her pussy. She hadn't been too surprised to discover he had a tube of lubricant in his jacket pocket, which he'd immediately fetched when she explained that at her age women needed some help. He had applied a generous amount to his fingers before sliding them into her pussy to begin frigging her in earnest.

She came hard, her inner muscles clenching tightly around his fingers as her hips bucked upwards; she was pleased that Bond didn't immediately withdraw his fingers, but instead continued to stroke her through the aftershock.

They helped each other to undress, then lay back down together, kissing and caressing each other as they learned about each other's bodies.

When Bond's cock began to stiffen again, he moved down the bed and stretched out, before bringing his mouth down to kiss M's thighs. She grasped his head as he began to lick and finger her pussy again, until he had brought her to a second, louder, climax. By this time he was fully hard again, and M watched as he slicked up his cock with some lube, then moved his body over hers. Slowly and carefully, he eased his prick inside her, which she appreciated, given his size, and then he was buried to the hilt inside her and M wrapped her arms around his upper body and pulled him down on top of her.

"You're not going to break me, you know," she murmured, and he chuckled, then began to move.

M hadn't told him that she hadn't been with a man since she had been widowed shortly after being made M; it hadn't been lack of interest, but a lack of time to find someone and build a relationship with him, particularly since she wouldn't have been able to discuss her work with him. Being in overall charge of MI6 was a very time-consuming job, so it had been easier not to bother. Now, though, with James beginning to fuck her in earnest, and with the familiar signs of an impending orgasm building up, she realised just how much she'd missed having a man in her life, or even in her bed.

M knew that she ought not to indulge in such an intimate relationship with a Double-0 agent, since it would be frowned upon – the powers that be would assume it meant that she wouldn't want to endanger that agent's life – but she felt sure James would understand the necessity for discretion if he wanted to continue to fuck her.

"Yes, James, yes! That's good! God, that is so good." His mouth was busy kissing and nuzzling her throat, and he was stroking her clit with his thumb as he began to thrust more quickly, and she guessed he was getting close, just as she was.

She climaxed only a few moments before James, and they lay catching their breath together – both of them feeling very satisfied with the way the day had turned out.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Little Boys Are Made Of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/995794) by [Wolfsbride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride)




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